


Time to Pretend

by Rovardotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Half-Sibling Incest, Holiday, M/M, weekend in paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each step in this city whispers its history of barricades and beheaded kings. It isn't their history, but just for this weekend, they can pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for the [ASOIAF Kink Meme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Original Prompt was _Jon/Robb, Modern AU. They're teenagers and still live with their parents. They've come to terms with the incestuous feelings they have for each other, but they are tired of hiding. Finally, they get to go on a weekend trip to another city, where nobody knows them and they can be themselves. They can display affection in public, hold hands and basically just be the cutest lovey-dovey couple ever._
> 
> Big thanks to mon cher ami [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) for all the help and support! Je t'adore *bisou*

They don't go up the Eiffel Tower.

"Only place in Paris where you can't see the damn thing," Robb says, but instead they walk down the river bank. It's a sunny autumn day; the pavement is littered with leaves and souvenir shops: cheap art prints, plastic keychains. Each step in this city whispers its history of barricades and beheaded kings. It isn't their history, but just for this weekend, they can pretend.

A miniature Notre Dame bounces in Robb's palm, and he chatters about plans and metro lines. His laughter is rolling, infectious, and how sorely Jon's missed that sound. Lately his brother is always busy, enclosed in his room with his studies, his college admission. Their father's expectations weigh heavily on his shoulders, and his once easy smile is already strained.

"I think we're lost," Robb says.

"No, see?" Jon points. "The tower's just there." But they are lost, he thinks, truly lost, and it was their own doing, their own sweet surrender to each other.

As they cross the Pont Mirabeau, they gaze down and watch the water slowly flow by, and Robb suddenly wraps an arm around his shoulders. Jon tenses, looks around; no one here knows them, but this secret is meant for dark bedrooms and for hungry caresses at night.

"People will notice," Jon says.

"So what if they do," Robb says. He let his hand slide back to his pocket, fists the tiny cathedral in his palm.

 

*******

 

They never enter the Louvre.

It rains the next morning; clouds hang low over the grey mansard roofs. They find refuge inside a small cinema, and the film has already begun when they settle into their seats at the back. It's an old noir, black and white, no subtitles, but they can still pretend. The hero commits the perfect murder, shoots his lover's husband through the heart, but after escaping the crime scene he gets trapped inside a faulty lift.

Jon feels that way too, at times, how his best-laid plans crumble to dust in his hands. He watches Robb, his tilted head, his wide eyes, and wonders if he hasn't doomed them both to a life of eternal hide and seek. He wonders what possessed him that night when he crossed the line they'd been playing around for years. It's like a sick prayer they are fated to repeat.

"They talk too fast," Robb grumbles. "Can't understand a word."

"I think he's gonna get caught," Jon says.

And maybe they would be too, one day, but here no one can guess their secret. They look nothing alike, Robb with his pale skin, bright eyes, and Jon sometimes feels he's just his brother's shadow, illicitly basking in his light. Without him he'd simply disappear. And then Robb's mouth is on his, lips parted, eager and warm, and his hand sneaks to his crotch, unzips his trousers.

"Someone's gonna see." Jon lays his hand on his brother's; he doesn't push him away.

"Let them see," Robb whispers. He entwines his fingers with Jon's. The theatre becomes a cathedral, the film a sermon, and their joined hands trace rosary beads on his cock.

 

*******

 

They don't climb the Arc de Triomphe.

Instead they stroll down Champs-Élysées, browse rows of books they can't read at Fnac, eavesdrop on conversations they can't hope to make sense of inside a small, overpriced café. They continue to pretend.

Robb tries on clothes at H&M: a plaid jacket, dress shirts, some colourful scarves. Jon leans against the fitting room's door while his brother winds the scarves around his neck, one by one, examines his reflection. His back is turned, but Jon can just feel his mischievous grin through the mirror.

"Lots of nice dresses here, très chic," Robb says. "Maybe you should try one."

"Why," Jon mutters. "What's in it for me?" And Robb tells him.

The dress sits tightly; it's frilly, black with golden sequins. "Here's a good look for you," Robb smiles, and Jon wants to smack him, he really does, but then his brother kneels behind him. "Practical, too," he says as he lifts the dress. And that's different, his tongue circles, quickly jabs, before it plunges into him. And Jon would tell him to stop, tell him that it's filthy, that outside there are vendors, customers and a swirl of foreign words, but instead he stands still, breath held, hands clamped tight. Filthy, well, that's in every little thing they do, even in their softest, most heartfelt kisses, so what's one more step forward.

"Gonna stain that dress," Robb says when he pulls out. "We'd have to buy it."

"Gift for Sansa," Jon mumbles, and he can feel every vibration of Robb's laughter as he takes his cock into his mouth.

 

*******

 

They never board the RER to Versailles.

The streets of the Marais are narrow, winding; they traipse over the old paving stones. It's an appropriate place, a home to outcasts, Jon thinks: Jews, gays and broken people, bohemian poets plucking the laces of their tattered shoes like lyre strings.

Robb leans towards him, his hand hugs his waist. That's not a rare sight here, but Jon's heart still drums madly when he returns the gesture, drapes his arm around his brother. He can't help but see them through their father's eyes, through those Frenchmen's eyes. He doesn't understand their words as well as Robb does, but hateful slurs, _pédé_ , _tapette_ , don't require much explanation at all. Only no one says a word; a few passersby smile. When a middle-aged man finally approaches them, calls out, his brother only chuckles.

"What's that?" Jon asks.

"Says we're cute together. _Comme_ _vous_ _êtes_ _mignons_." Robb rests his head on Jon's shoulder, pulls him closer. "We are, huh? Cute together?"

Jon's thought of them as many things: wrong, incestuous, a malady, each other's worst addiction. But he's never considered 'cute'. He looks at Robb's tousled curls, shining red by the late September sun; he watches the peaceful lines of his brother's face, so trusting against his skin. And yes, cute, maybe they are. Or at least they can pretend. His lips travel on Robb's brow, down his cheek, to his mouth.

"You know they're gonna see." Robb's voice is soft, slightly teasing.

"And maybe I want them to," Jon says. They kiss with their eyes shut tight as the crowds of tourists pass them by.

 

*******

 

They end up at Père Lachaise cemetery.

It's almost by mistake. It's late afternoon and they are lost inside a metro station, blankly stare at train charts. When they resurface aboveground, the ancient necropolis sprawls before their eyes. Robb fumbles for euros in his pocket to buy a map; the entrance guard tells them to be quick, the gates close in half an hour.

It's quiet under the shady trees, between the tombstones. A few last visitors still hurry about, frantically searching for Morrison, Wilde or Balzac. They keep their distance, trail through the thicket of graves until they find an opened crypt; they sneak inside, sit in the corner in a huddle of arms and legs. It smells of old earth and foreign history, of dead poets and crumbling stones.

"Half an hour's passed," Robb murmurs.

"Probably," Jon whispers back.

As night falls they hear the crickets chirp, the owls hoot. They undress in silence, share the heat of their skin under the cover of darkness. Jon presses his palm to his brother's chest, roughly holds him down to the gravestones; he soaks in Robb's slack mouth, his shutting eyes, his stifled cries, and it's not enough.

"Louder, Robb," he tells him as he starts thrusting into him. "Let everyone hear."

His brother shudders, gives a shaky laugh as Jon buries himself fully inside of him. "I'll let the world hear," he says. His next moan carries out into the Parisian night, and there's no need to pretend.


End file.
